Specifically,

the girl falling

hard enough from the saddle

to clack her teeth.

Just under my favorite tree.

The man: lean into it.

(He does, the tree.)

Unicycle’s like walking

on your hands. You’re

always in a state of almost

falling. Lean into it

or you land on your ass.

So she sets up again,

white lip knuckle-crook

contact, whole earth

like a pendulum.

I never got the hang

of that either, she says.

 

Generally,

what passes for summer

in these parts. A golden crown

sparrow hops clear,

watches her wobble

by in broken light like

it was nothing new.

 

Keith T. Fancher

Keith T. Fancher is not a poet. Born in the California redwoods and raised in the Blue Ridge foothills, he holds degrees in computer science and film studies. Nonetheless, his work has appeared in Poetry Northwest, Red Ogre Review, OPEN: Journal, Right Hand Pointing, and elsewhere. He lives in San Francisco.

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